Chapter Text
Shane woke up nauseous and starving at the same time.
For a moment he lay very still, eyes on the ceiling, cataloguing sensations like he always did after a bad hit or a new off-season workout. It was early, he could tell from the pale light bleeding around the edges of the curtains, and the room was cool, the air from the vent washing over his face. Anya was snoring softly at the foot of the bed. Beside him, Ilya was a large, warm shape, breathing deep and even.
His mouth tasted gross. Acidic. Ew.
He swallowed and his throat burned. Great.
Apparently thirty-one was when his entire body started downhill. At blinding speed.
He pressed his palm carefully over his midsection, fingers splayed just under his ribs. His skin felt hot, the muscles underneath tight. He’d been trying, mostly, to be chill about his diet this off-season. Not reckless, just… less insane.
He still meal-prepped, still tracked his macros in a spreadsheet, still weighed his portions more often than he’d admit to anyone except maybe Ilya. But he’d allowed burgers. Cake. Actual chips, not those sad baked things that tasted like cardboard disappointment.
Also, they’d gone on a literal honeymoon. They hadn’t had time to take one last year, with the wedding and then the season right after, so they took one after this past season. They needed an excuse to get out of the city after their second round exit.
So yeah, they went on a honeymoon. To Spain.
To Shane, it felt morally wrong to say no to bread there. Or wine.
Or whatever that deep-fried thing had been in Ibiza that Ilya had liked so much he’d almost moaned in the middle of the restaurant.
He waited for the nausea to ebb. It didn’t.
The hunger sharpened instead, a hollow gnawing that made his jaw ache.
“Ugh,” he whispered, and started to roll carefully out of bed.
Carefully, though, because his center of gravity had been weird lately. He’d spent July telling himself it was from all the travel. It made sense in his brain.
Then August hit, and he’d decided it was just what happened when you slacked off on core maintenance and let your husband talk you into “vacation abs” instead of “Shane Hollander abs.”
The mattress dipped behind him, and a hand reached out to grab at the blanket where Shane’s body was just a moment before. “Where are you going?” Ilya’s voice was rough with sleep, and somehow deeper in the morning. Shane had always thought that was unfair.
“Bathroom,” Shane said. “Go back to sleep.”
“You feel bad?” Ilya asked immediately, more awake now. Of course he was. Ilya could sleep through an alarm if he wanted to, but if Shane so much as sniffled, he was alert like a guard dog.
“Just need water,” Shane lied. Half lied. Barely lied. Water would be good. So would toast. Eggs. Possibly an entire cow.
He padded to the ensuite, shut the door most of the way, and leaned over the sink. His reflection looked… fine. Normal even. If not.. a little paler than usual.
There were faint shadows under his eyes that had never quite gone away since the playoffs last spring, but those were stress and, ugh, age and too much travel, not anything else.
“Okay,” Shane told his own reflection, “you’re almost thirty-two and your metabolism hates you now. That’s all this is.”
His gaze flicked downward. The t-shirt he slept in was hanging a little oddly over his torso, the hem pulled tighter across his middle than it used to.
Not bad. Not anything anyone else would notice.
His arms were still solid, shoulders broad, thighs heavy with muscle. He’d been in the gym all summer. He’d skated with the local guys twice a week. His numbers were fine.
He just looked a little… softer. Around the edges. Eww.
He tugged the fabric tight against his stomach. It still made him queasy, seeing anything that read as “not perfectly controlled” there.
Too many years of magazine shoots and body commentary. Too many seasons of having his conditioning dissected on sports panels.
You’re being ridiculous, he told himself. You’re allowed to have a normal body.
By the time he came back out, Ilya had rolled over onto his back and was starfished across Shane’s half of the bed, one forearm thrown over his eyes, the sheet tangled around his waist.
The ring and crucifix at his throat had slid to one side, glinting faintly in the early light.
It hit Shane in the chest, the sight of him like that.
Husband. His husband, in their house, in their bed, on a morning before their second full season together as teammates.
Ilya lowered his arm, squinting over in his direction. “Come back to bed.”
“I’m gonna make oatmeal.”
Ilya made a face. “Why?”
“Because my body hates me and apparently I am now one of those old guys who needs to eat like it.”
Ilya pushed himself up onto his elbows, hair sticking up in wild curls. “You are not old. You are sexy.”
“Tell that to whatever is happening in here.” Shane gestured vaguely at his middle.
Ilya’s eyes followed the movement, then narrowed. For half a heartbeat, something like concern flashed across his face. Then he smoothed it into a soft smile. “Is my fault. I made you eat all those churros in Madrid.”
“You didn’t make me,” Shane said, but he smiled anyway, because the memory helped more than any antacid ever could.
Their honeymoon had been perfect. Exhausting, but perfect. He’d been tired the whole time, but he’d blamed the flights, the heat, the crowds, the fact that he and Ilya had decided to try and walk every single street in Barcelona in a single day.
He’d thrown up twice. Once after a boat ride, once in a hotel bathroom that had smelled like bleach and oranges. Both times he’d shrugged it off. Motion sickness. Food poisoning. Too much sun.
Shane rolled his eyes at his husband and said, “Go back to sleep. You have, like, a whole two weeks before Wiebe ruins your life.”
“Is just training camp,” Ilya said. “My life is not ruined. Yet.” He yawned, then patted the mattress next to him. “Come here. Five more minutes.”
“You said that three times yesterday,” Shane’s stomach cramped again. “And then it was forty-five minutes. So no. I’m going to go start the oatmeal.”
Ilya’s eyes softened. “You really feel bad?”
“I’m fine,” Shane insisted. “Just… off. I’ll be okay once I get something in me.”
“You want tea? I will make.”
“I can make my own tea. Stay in bed.” He reached out and ran his fingers through Ilya’s curls, pushing them back from his forehead.
Ilya caught his wrist, pressed a kiss to Shane’s palm. “Bossy,” he murmured.
“Still a captain at home,” Shane said automatically, and then winced. “Former captain. Whatever.”
Ilya’s expression flickered, and he squeezed Shane’s hand. “You are always captain. Just now you have better logo.”
Shane snorted. “You hate the logo.”
“Yes, but now you have it with me.” Ilya released him and flopped back. “Go feed stomach. I will come help.”
“You will fall back asleep.”
“Probably.”
Shane smiled in spite of himself and headed downstairs, one hand absently rubbing at his sternum as if he could smooth out the acid burn with his palm.
---
By the time Ilya wandered into the kitchen, barefoot, hair flattened on one side, wearing a Centaurs t-shirt that had “ROZANOV 81” stretched comfortably across his back, Shane had already eaten one bowl of oatmeal, two slices of toast, and half an apple.
He was halfway through his second bowl when Ilya stopped in the doorway and stared.
“What?” Shane asked, spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Nothing.” Ilya blinked, then came forward and kissed the top of Shane’s head on his way to the coffee maker. “Is good. You are bulking.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “I am not bulking. I am trying not to puke. This is strategic.”
“Ah yes,” Ilya said solemnly. “Strategic oatmeal.”
He poured himself coffee, added a frankly obscene amount of sugar, and leaned against the counter facing Shane.
His gaze did that thing: a quick scan, head to toe, the way he’d watch opposing players. Assessing. Not judging. Just… taking in data.
It was comforting, mostly. Sometimes, lately, it made Shane want to squirm.
“What?” he asked again, more sharply this time.
Ilya shrugged. “You look… tired.”
“That’s because I am tired,” Shane said. “You snored all night.”
“I do not snore,” Ilya said, immediately offended. “Anya snores.”
“She does,” Shane agreed, rubbing the dog’s head with his socked foot where she sprawled under the table.
“But you snore too. You do this thing where you whistle on the exhale.”
“You are making this up. You are rude.” Ilya took a sip of coffee, then nodded at Shane’s bowl. “You finish that, then we walk with dog?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Let me just-”
He trailed off, pressing his hand over his ribs.
A sharp stitch had stabbed his side when he twisted. Not the usual morning stiffness.
A real, breath-stealing jab.
Ilya’s eyes sharpened. “What?”
“Nothing.” Shane forced himself to straighten, lifting his chin. “Just moved funny.”
“You move funny all the time,” Ilya said. “But usually you don’t make that face.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Ilya watched him for another beat, then nodded slowly. “Okay. But if you throw up on me or Anya on walk, we will be very offended.”
Shane snorted and shoved another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. “Noted.”
---
The stitch lingered through their usual loop along the river, low and nagging. It wasn’t a big deal. He’d had worse. It was just annoying, breathing around it.
He shortened his stride a little without really thinking about it, one hand shoved in his hoodie pocket, fingers curled into the fabric just above where the ache seemed to live.
“You are walking weird,” Ilya observed eventually.
“Your face is walking weird,” Shane said, then internally winced at how adolescent that sounded.
Ilya glanced down at him, one eyebrow raised. “Nicely done. Very mature. Maybe you should not come to media day; you will embarrass me.”
“Shut up.” Shane adjusted his grip on Anya’s leash.
The dog trotted happily between them, stopping every few feet to sniff something that apparently contained vital information about the neighborhood.
Ilya’s hand brushed Shane’s. “You sure you are all right?” he asked in a low voice. “We can call doctor, if-”
“For what?” Shane snapped, then immediately regretted the bite in his tone. He exhaled and tried again. “I’m sorry. I just-. There’s nothing wrong. I’m out of shape, that’s all.”
Ilya snorted. “You are not out of shape. Two weeks ago you skated circles around Wyatt in that charity game.”
“That was different,” Shane said. “That was… adrenaline. And I wasn’t-”
He broke off, swallowing, because the inside of his mouth had suddenly filled with saliva in that way that sometimes meant he was about to puke.
He stopped walking, bent his head, and breathed carefully through his nose.
Ilya stopped too. “Shane.”
“I’m fine,” Shane ground out, because if he said it enough times it would be true.
“I just… I think I need to talk to someone about my off-season plan. Maybe I didn’t build back up right after Spain. I’ve been feeling kind of… heavy? Not like weight, just-”
He groped for a word. There was no word. Zero. None.
“Sluggish,” he finished. “And my stomach is just… pissed at me.”
Ilya nodded slowly. “Okay. We talk to hockey doctor. But maybe you also talk to actual doctor.”
“What, you think I have, like, an ulcer?” Shane tried for a joke.
“Maybe.” Ilya gave him a small smile. “Or maybe you are allergic to stupid logo.”
Shane laughed weakly. “You wish.”
But the idea of seeing a doctor made him tense up all over. Doctors had too many answers.
Too many hands poking and measuring and comparing you to charts.
They would say things like ‘you’re not twenty anymore’ and ‘this is what happens after so many seasons’ and ‘maybe you should consider reducing your minutes’.
He was not ready for that conversation. Not when he and Ilya were finally on the same team, with a real shot at a Cup.
Not when the Centaurs had built their forward lines around the idea of the two of them as the one-two punch down the middle.
He would fix this himself. He always had.
“Let’s just start simple,” he said. “I probably need to tweak my nutrition. Maybe get some bloodwork done. Like, performance doctor. Not…” He flailed a hand. “You know. Old-man doctor.”
“At thirty-one,” Ilya said dryly, “you are very old. It is miracle you can still stand up.”
“Exactly,” Shane said. “I need to make the miracle last.”
Ilya bumped their shoulders together. “You will play until forty and still be annoying.”
“Promise?” Shane asked before he could stop himself.
Ilya’s expression softened. He squeezed the back of Shane’s neck, thumb rubbing just under the line of his hair. “Promise,” he said.
---
That night, lying in bed with Ilya’s arm heavy around his waist, Shane stared at the ceiling and tried to map out every weird thing his body had done in the last few months.
The nausea in Spain. The exhaustion during their playoff run.
The way his appetite had swung between non-existent and ravenous.
The strange fullness in his abdomen that made certain positions uncomfortable, that made it hard to curl up on his side the way he used to.
The subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his balance that had him reaching for railings on stairs more often than before.
He laid his hand over his stomach, fingers spreading, and felt… not fat.
Not exactly. Not muscle, either. Something in between. Something he didn’t have a word for.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Ilya mumbled into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Shane whispered. “Did I wake you?”
“You did not wake me. My love for you wakes me.”
Ilya’s voice was thick with sleep and affection. “Also you are tense like brick. What is it?”
“I think... maybe I need to see the doctor,” Shane said, because if he didn’t say it now he’d chicken out in the morning.
“Good,” Ilya said immediately.
Shane blinked. “Good?”
“You have been… off,” Ilya said thoughtfully. His hand slid down from Shane’s chest, over his ribs, coming to rest just above where Shane’s was.
He didn’t press, just rested it there, warm and steady. “Tired. Stomach. You make little faces when you bend. I do not like it.”
“I don’t make faces,” Shane protested automatically.
“Yes. You do.” Ilya nuzzled his neck. “Is not weakness to see doctor.”
“I know that,” Shane said. “I just… don’t want them to tell me I’m… done. Or breaking. Or-”
He swallowed. The word fragile scraped his throat on the way down.
Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, very softly, “They will not tell you that. I would not let them.”
Shane snorted, a choked little sound. “You gonna fight them?”
“Yes.” Ilya’s mouth curved against his skin. “I am very scary. You have seen. They will say, ‘Rozanov, please, do not hurt us, we will fix your husband.’”
Shane’s laugh came out wetter than he’d like. “You’re an idiot.”
“But you love me,” Ilya reminded him.
“Yeah,” Shane said, his hand shifting under Ilya’s. “I really do.”
“Then let me come with you,” Ilya said. “To doctor.”
Shane hesitated. The idea of sitting on an exam table while Ilya watched someone prod his parts made his skin prickle with embarrassment.
But the thought of doing it alone was worse.
“Okay,” he said eventually. “If you’re allowed in.”
“They will allow me,” Ilya said confidently. “I am very charming."
Shane let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tightness in his chest loosening just a little.
Ilya’s hand stayed on his stomach, fingers spread, thumb stroking an absent-minded pattern over the fabric of his shirt.
He closed his eyes and finally, slowly, drifted off, telling himself that in a week, maybe two, he’d have a simple explanation. Reflux. Ulcer. Stress.
Something boring.
Something fixable.
Something that made sense in the world he understood,one of training loads and recovery curves and aging muscles.
The idea that there could be another explanation, a wilder, stranger one, never quite formed into a thought he could name.
Not yet.